


we whose minds are so much one

by winchilsea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Developing Relationship, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Multi, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:12:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchilsea/pseuds/winchilsea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac builds a blanket fort, Combeferre lacks a brain to mouth filter when sleep deprived, and Enjolras really loves his friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we whose minds are so much one

**Author's Note:**

> syllahound made an amazing playlist! [go have a listen](http://8tracks.com/syllahound/and-the-world-spins-madly-on-lmbb-16) c:

The semester is coming to an end when hell freezes over. Snow piles up outside, turning into thick sheets of ice on the sidewalks and promising a dangerous fall for anyone who dares to venture outside their door.

 

Conceding to the weather, campus shuts down a few days short of exams. Everyone is in a frenzy—what are they supposed to do without the library? But it’s no use. Exams are moved online, though some are cancelled altogether as professors promise some combination of quizzes and projects as a final grade. If you aren’t losing sleep over an unexpected final—everyone knows these are both harder and graded more harshly—then you’re losing sleep trying to bargain for a better grade.

 

Both of his roommates have been uncharacteristically unsociable in the past week and a half, but at least Combeferre’s been in the kitchen eating recently, even if it was only a cup of instant coffee and a granola bar that he chewed unenthusiastically for two and a half minutes—“Good, uh, morning?” Combeferre mumbled, squinting at the window to judge the time by the amount of light—before shuffling back into his room. 

 

Enjolras hasn’t ventured out of his room at all.

 

Courfeyrac’s worried. He’s trying not to be by keeping himself occupied with cleaning the kitchen, tidying up the living room, and pacing—so much pacing—but he’s worried. After a semester of living together, he knows how Combeferre and Enjolras get when they have exams or projects, but this is on another level entirely. How long can the human body go without food or rest? Joly would be able to answer, but he too has fallen off the face of the planet.

 

The only one of their friends still in communication with the outside world is Bahorel, who sends a snapchat on the third morning of Courfeyrac’s stakeout. It’s a video of Bahorel narrating his brave journey to the grocery store on foot and ends with an abrupt jerk as he slips and falls.

 

A sharp spear of anxiety lances through Courfeyrac. He sits up quickly, almost falling off the couch, and he scrambles to run out and make sure Bahorel isn’t lying on the street, bleeding in the snow—except then his phone vibrates with another snapchat from Bahorel.

 

It’s a video of him looking stunned before bursting into laughter.

 

Breathing a sigh of relief, Courfeyrac sits back against the couch and stares at the ceiling. Courfeyrac lives a hard life, worrying about all these wonderful people. 

 

During this moment of serene contemplation, Courfeyrac thinks that the ceiling looks remarkably reachable. In fact, he’s pretty sure that if he stands on one of the high chairs at the counter dividing the kitchen from the living room, he can totally reach it.

 

An idea forms. He snatches up his phone and replies to Bahorel with a text containing eleven exclamation points, individually entered. That done, he (quietly) flings the door to his room open. It’s noticeably frostier inside.

 

His room is neater than usual, the carpet free of stray assignments and readings and lined paper and other general debris that comes from being a busy college student. He’s had plenty of free time these past few days and needed to keep busy somehow.

 

He makes quick work of gathering up all his blankets and anything vaguely related to blankets. The fleece throw folded on his desk chair, the thin blanket draped over the back of that chair, the three quilts layered on his bed, the gauzy scarf draped over his lamp. They’re not all exactly fresh, but they’re clean, and they suit his purposes. 

 

Standing proudly in his doorway over the mountain of blankets and blanket-like-stuff, Courfeyrac puts his hands on his hips and nods. Pauses. Snatches the throw quilt off the living room couch. Nods again.

 

This’ll do nicely.

 

Rolling his sleeves up, Courfeyrac sets to work defying the laws of physics by draping blankets _just so_. They’re stubborn, but he wrangles them into place and—after failing to get them to stay in place with sheer willpower—rubber bands. 

 

Rearranging the furniture takes a little longer. They’ve got knickknacks scattered across the living room: stacks of books and textbooks and spiral-bounds from symposiums, variously-shaped stress balls with various slogans and logos printed on them, framed pictures of friends and pictures drawn by friends. Despite being campus housing, it feels oddly like home.

 

All the luck comes from living with his two best friends, even if they know each other too well—in too many contrasting settings—and often fumble, igniting tempers when they attempt to navigate through each other’s personal boundaries and insecurities. 

 

Enjolras and Combeferre steered steady before Courfeyrac ever entered the picture—he likes to think that he joined seamlessly, synchronizing with their wavelength with a destined sort of ease, but there’s no denying that they almost shattered, shuddering, frustrated.

 

The flip side to knowing the ins and outs of someone better than you know your own is that you know exactly how to lash out so that it hurts—and then when they strike back, it leaves you unmoored. Illumination is never pretty, but when it throws into sharp relief all the ugly things about yourself that have been lurking in the cracks, it turns out to be devastating.

 

There had been tears shed all around—by them, by their friends, by people who accidentally stumbled into their crosshairs.

 

The resolution had involved more tears—mostly from Courfeyrac, who had intermittently used both their shirts as tissues, but a surprising amount from Enjolras too—and a restless night of clutching at each other. Possibly a few things had been thrown, and someone’s nose _almost_ got broken. 

 

Courfeyrac’s phone lights up just as he finishes pushing the coffee table out of the living room and half into the kitchen. When he picks it up, slumping tiredly on the table, he sees a string of snapchat notifications from Bahorel.

 

They go as follow:

    1\. A sweep around a mostly deserted grocery aisle.  
2\. The icy landscape, someone approaching from the distance.  
3\. Bahorel and Grantaire’s faces smushed together in the frame. Caption: peace sign emoji  
4\. Feuilly, slumped over his textbooks. Caption: dont worry ill wake him up  
5\. A pot of boiling spaghetti. Caption: come join us (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ 

 

That last makes Courfeyrac pause and give a discerning sweep of the living room, which is partially gutted and has blankets haphazardly hanging off remaining furniture. Then he looks to the fridge, which has all the deadlines for Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s finals.

 

He has time.

 

*

 

Bahorel and Feuilly’s apartment is a quick jog upstairs to 204, but Courfeyrac still pulls on a beanie (Enjolras’), a scarf (Combeferre’s), and a coat (his) because even half a minute out in the cold is too much.

 

He throws the door open and exclaims in his loudest whisper, “I have arrived!”

 

Feuilly, now snoring on the couch, is the first thing he notices. The second thing is Grantaire, who greets him with shower of sparkle fingers, which is altogether much warmer than he expected. The third thing is Bahorel, who swoops out of literally nowhere to wrap him up in a bear hug.

 

That seems to smother whatever awkward tension might form for the time being. Once Bahorel releases him and he’s stripped himself of his winter gear, Courfeyrac sashays over to the counter and props his elbows up.

 

“Nuh-uh,” Grantaire says, pointing the knife he’s using to slice mushrooms at Courfeyrac. “If you’re here, you have to put in labor. House rules.”

 

So they’re going to act casual and normal. Okay. Casual and normal are both good.

 

Courfeyrac forms a telescope with his hands and squints. “Sorry, but as these rules haven’t officially been ordained on the fridge, I refuse to recognize them.”

 

Then Bahorel breezes by with a sticky note in his hand and slaps it on the fridge. It reads, in his typical blocky letters: “ALL KITCHEN HANDS MUST WEAR AN APRON OF CHEF’S CHOICE.” There’s a glittery star in the corner next to Bahorel’s initials.

 

“Signed and notarized,” Grantaire says. “You’ve just been served.”

 

“I’m almost sure that doesn’t mean anything outside of courtroom dramas, and it doesn’t say anything about labor,” Courfeyrac returns, singsong.

 

Shaking out a stylish cupcake patterned apron with decorative bows, Bahorel says, “Only kitchen-hands can taste test.”

 

“And to be a kitchen-hand, you have to put in labor,” Grantaire adds.

 

“Fine,” Courfeyrac says, accepting defeat with grace. “But only because the apron is cute.”

 

Courfeyrac is conscripted into (badly) mincing garlic and (unevenly) chopping onions and (distractedly) taking pictures of Feuilly, who shows no signs of waking up this century. The latter, strictly speaking, isn’t his duty as a kitchen-hand, but Courfeyrac has many, many plans to bribe Enjolras, and once the pot of pasta sauce is simmering, both Grantaire and Bahorel pose for pictures with Feuilly in the background.

 

*

 

“Since most of us are staying on campus, and we’re too broke to go anywhere, I say we throw a pajama party,” Courfeyrac declares in the middle of their card game. He’s not entirely sure what the game is, but he thinks might be winning. Unless the objective _isn’t_ to have the most amount of cards.

 

“Only if onesies are mandatory,” Bahorel says, slapping three cards on the table, prompting Grantaire to sigh and reshuffle the deck. 

 

“Onesies, shenanigans, and tomfoolery,” Courfeyrac agrees. He tentatively slides one of his cards across the counter facedown.

 

“Objection. Shenanigans and tomfoolery are the same thing,” Grantaire says, peering at his cards.

 

Stroking his non-existent beard (which he shaved, and continues to shave, in an ongoing bet with Bossuet), Bahorel says, “No, no. See, ‘shenanigans’ has an action-y feel, and ‘tomfoolery’ is more about the attitude.”

 

“I call bullshit. Also,” Grantaire adds, laying down half his hand, “I totally won.”

 

Courfeyrac stares at his own hand. “You mean I wasn’t winning?”

 

“Uh,” Bahorel says, “not even close.” He places his cards on the counter and stretches. “I’m going out for a smoke. Do not”—he points at both of them—“touch the pasta sauce while I’m gone.”

 

*

 

“So what card game was that anyway?”

 

“Goldfish.”

 

*

 

The thing is, none of them smoke. “Going out for a smoke” means “I feel like you guys need to talk without me in the room so I’m going to leave.”

 

Because it’s the exact opposite of subtle, it also means, “You guys need to sort your shit out before I come back and have to sort it out for you. Trust me, you don’t want me sorting it out for you.”

 

Courfeyrac clears his throat as he watches Grantaire clean up the cards one by one. 

 

“Look,” Grantaire says, determinedly not looking up, “I’m fine, okay?”

 

Silence slogs between them, but Courfeyrac understands that the best course of action when having a conversation with Grantaire—who doesn't particularly _want_ to have the conversation—is to let him squirm and start rambling. Wait for the words to boil up to the surface. That’s the easy part. The hard part is figuring out whether Grantaire wants eyes on him.

 

They—Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras—have been giving him space, though admittedly it’s more by coincidence than plan. Finals were already looming by that point, and everyone just found themselves conveniently busy. Courfeyrac keeps his eyes on Grantaire’s hands and supposes that they’ve all been cowards for long enough.

 

“I am one-hundred-percent super fine with your love shack,” Grantaire says at last. 

 

Courfeyrac musters up a protest because that’s _not_ —

 

“I know, I know,” Grantaire interrupts, holding up a hand, which Courfeyrac’s eyes automatically track. “I know,” Grantaire repeats a third time, “and I really am okay with it. I’m okay, but I have to keep reminding myself that I’m okay, so I just—I just need some time. Until I don’t have to remind myself.” He hides his hands in the sleeves of his hoodie and seems to hunch in on himself.

 

Personally, Courfeyrac doesn’t think that sounds like Grantaire’s okay, but he’s willing to accept Grantaire’s judgement. 

 

“But you understand, right?” Courfeyrac asks. “It’s not because of you or anything you did, it’s because this is just how Enjolras is—how we are.” He hopes, distantly, that Bahorel isn't secretly listening in on their conversation because he'd probably bash their heads together if he realized they weren’t even directly addressing the problem, just talking around it.

 

“I know,” Grantaire says again, and this time he sounds exasperated.

 

Gently, Courfeyrac says, “Sometimes I don’t think I’m good enough for him either, you know.”

 

“I know,” says Grantaire. “Wait, what?” 

 

“It's not just Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says calmly, “I feel the same way with Combeferre.” The strange, fragile thing between them is still new, and most of the time Courfeyrac feels like he’s walking on a tightrope somewhere way, way too high, waiting to teeter and fall on the wrong side. “Then I remember that they both love me and that they’re not actually perfect, no matter how much I wholeheartedly believe that they are.” He pauses. “Um, I mean. Love as in—”

 

“I get it,” Grantaire says, saving Courfeyrac from himself with a small, wry smile. “I meant it when I said that I’m okay. Besides,” he adds, rocking back on his heels, “I hear I have some really good friends or some shit like that.”

 

“Damn right you do,” Courfeyrac says, grinning, and really does believe that Grantaire’s okay—that they’ll all be okay by the end of it. “Think we should tell Bahorel it’s safe to come back?”

 

“Nah,” Grantaire says, “let him freeze his ass off out there.”

 

*

 

“Hey, Grantaire?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Maybe you could, like, stop being such an asshole to Enjolras though.”

 

“Maybe,” Grantaire says, sounding like he has intentions to do anything but.

 

*

 

Courfeyrac holds three tupperware containers filled to bursting with spaghetti. “They’re locked up in their rooms, working on finals,” he says apologetically.

 

“Nah, I get it,” Bahorel says. “Shame though, I was hoping to see E’s reaction.”

 

“I can probably take a gander,” Courfeyrac offers. He squares his shoulders and squints at Bahorel. “Christmas has been twisted by capitalism and presumes ubiquity only because corporations prey on people’s sentimentality to make money.”

 

Bahorel applauds. The sound is muffled by his gloves. “That was spot-on.” He’s lying through his teeth, of course. They both know Enjolras finds Christmas a convenient excuse to do nice things for this friends. “But I meant the fact that I made pasta with mushrooms, and you know how Enjolras loves mushrooms.”

 

“Oh,” Courfeyrac says. “I think the first thing he’d notice would be you dressed as Santa Claus.” 

 

Stroking his snow-white beard, Bahorel says, “Do you think so?”

 

“I really do.”

 

*

 

After he closes the door quietly, Courfeyrac puts the tupperware in the fridge, next to the carton of eggs and half-empty can of condensed milk. Aside from a two-litre of soda and Enjolras’ yogurt drinks, the fridge is otherwise empty. The freezer, on the other hand, is jam-packed with an assortment of frozen foods that are crucial to the survival of any college student.

 

Having not roomed with Enjolras and Combeferre last year, Courfeyrac learned the hard way that the delicious food the two of them brought to potlucks are potluck-exclusive. Or near enough. They never cook for themselves—nothing more complicated than poaching an egg in ramen—but if one of their friends is sick or there’s a party, then it’s guaranteed they’ll bring food.

 

Enjolras makes the best savory foods. Combeferre makes the best deserts. Courfeyrac makes the best competitive eater.

 

He’s about to add “best blanket fort builder” to his title.

 

Building a good blanket fort requires ingenuity and risks. As in, if an RA were to walk to into their apartment when all is said and done, then Courfeyrac will have to apologize even more than he did last year when he let Marius share his dorm room, and he had to apologize to the RA _and_ his then-roommate for that fiasco.

 

In the end, it’s nothing short of pure genius, if he does say so himself.

 

* * *

 

After submitting his essay, Combeferre stares at his laptop a little dazed, unable to resituate himself back into reality. He shuts his laptop before he can pore over his essay again and have regrets. The ache in his lower back slowly makes itself known, accompanied by a bone-deep fatigue that sits behind his eyes.

 

It’s ridiculous—because Combeferre has been keeping a close watch on his deadlines—but he’s not entirely certain what the time or day is.

 

He stretches slowly, trying to come back to himself. His phone tells him that it’s fifteen to noon. Lunch, then.

 

The first wave of vertigo hits him when he’s halfway out of his seat, and the second wave gets him a couple of steps to his door. It’s possible he might be shaking. But only a little. His head’s swimming with T-cell activation charts, and every time he loses focus he sees the squiggly circles and arrows.

 

This is why, when he finally manages to exit his room on unsteady feet and his shins bump into the coffee table, he wonders if he’s hallucinating. Lack of sleep can do that to people. Last time he checked, he’d been awake for over fifty hours, with only an accidental four hours of rest to break it up.

 

His eyes are dry.

 

Also, he’s crawling across the coffee table.

 

And now he’s falling off the coffee table.

 

Combeferre has his head pillowed on his arms, but his lower half is still stubbornly on the coffee table. He thinks, irrationally, of inchworms. 

 

Shivering—or maybe shaking, but if anyone were to ask he’d say that it’s cold, of course he’s shivering—with his glasses smushed against his face, it takes him several seconds to process what he’s seeing.

 

The thing that has sprouted up in the middle of their living room looks familiar. Combeferre knows what it’s called. Two words. On the tip of his tongue. An obstacle course stands between him and the answer, so he sets it aside—his secret to solving difficult problems is to let them stew and trust in himself—and begins to crawl into the opening of the thing.

 

It looks like a different world from the inside. 

 

The first thing he sees is Courfeyrac’s ankle, glad to be able to name at least that. It’s sticking out a little, and Combeferre puts a hand on it. Even though his own hands are ice, Courfeyrac’s ankle is colder, and Combeferre gets it in his head that he needs to warm him up. For a while he sits there, rubbing Courfeyrac’s ankle. 

 

Courfeyrac stirs, and Combeferre is still staring intently at his ankle.

 

“Courfeyrac,” he says urgently.

 

This immediately startles Courfeyrac awake. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

 

“Courfeyrac,” Combeferre says again, abandoning Courfeyrac’s ankle to lie down and apply his face to Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “You built a _blanket castle_.” Those aren’t quite the right words either, but they’re close enough that he’s satisfied.

 

“Oh my god. Have you slept at all?”

 

“Yes,” Combeferre says, pleased that he isn’t lying. 

 

Courfeyrac’s answer is a very disbelieving snort. He shifts to accommodate Combeferre’s sprawling height and weight, but Combeferre has rolled on top of him without meaning to move. 

 

“I’m sleeping _now_ ,” he mumbles, incongruously smug. See? He takes care of himself just fine. No one can say anything about his marathon essay writing sessions anymore.

 

“You’re really not,” Courfeyrac says, “so I can say whatever I want about your unhealthy studying habits.”

 

Courfeyrac is a _mind reader_.

 

“No.” They both shake with Courfeyrac’s laughter. “You’re just saying everything out loud.”

 

This makes Combeferre sit up. He places his hand on Courfeyrac’s forehead and says, with as much solemnity as possible, “That is a very bad cover up.”

 

“Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry for hiding my secret mind reading powers from you.” Courfeyrac tries to tug him back down. “Come on, you really need to get some sleep.”

 

“Can’t,” Combeferre says, shaking his head. This always happens after major projects. “Too much stuff.” It feels impossible to shut his mind down, especially when there’s a part of it that’s reciting his entire essay on loop.

 

“At least lie down,” Courfeyrac says. “Come on, come here.”

 

Combeferre lies down stiffly on his back, squinting against the ceiling lights. For a moment, Courfeyrac’s hand blocks the lights, and then when it leaves the lights return again, except—blurrier. As he understands it, these things are usually dark inside. So why are there lights?

 

“You,” Combeferre beings, feeling out the words in his mind. “You tied the blankets to the ceiling fan?” They’re all going to get crushed and die.

 

“Close your eyes. Maybe you can trick your brain into sleeping—like how birds get all quiet when it’s dark. I’ll even turn off the lights for you. Also,” Courfeyrac adds, voice farther away, “I’m offended that you think my blanket fort is anything less than perfect.”

 

Oh. So that’s what the word is. Fort. Blanket fort.

 

Courfeyrac snorts, and the yellow-orange behind Combeferre’s eyelids turns to black. Combeferre can’t tell if that’s better or worse. He has books he needs to return to the library soon, and he needs to catch one of his professors before she leaves campus so he can ask for a rec letter. What else, what else?

 

Something soft hits him.

 

“Try to fit in some time for resting and eating between all that,” Courfeyrac says. “I pilfered some of your blankets and pillows, budge over.”

 

“ _Courfeyrac_ ,” Combeferre says, scandalized. “This is a blanket fort. There are no pillows in a blanket fort.”

 

“Please don’t start,” Courfeyrac says. He spreads the blanket on the floor, rolling Combeferre this way and that to get him out of the way.

 

Why doesn’t Courfeyrac understand that this is a serious matter? A blanket fort should consist solely of blankets. While it’s permissible to have supplemental objects—like that chair whose leg is now digging into his back—pillows are strictly prohibited. Strictly. So prohibited. So much. It’s probably even illegal.

 

Combeferre gasps.

 

“I can’t believe you’re even narrating your actions now,” Courfeyrac says.

 

“What if you go to jail?” Combeferre asks.

 

“Listen, if this is a blanket fort, then I’m its commanding officer and I say that, due to the extremely uncomfortable condition of sleeping on the ground, we shall bring in pillows.”

 

“That’s the kind of talk that gets you executed for rebelling,” Combeferre mutters as Courfeyrac fluffs up the pillows. 

 

“And who’s gonna hold me accountable?”

 

Combeferre considers it for a second. Were there blanket fort authorities in the world? There should be. Someone should start a world council, ensure that all blanket forts meet standards of quality. Officially ban pillows.

 

“I’m going to smother you with this pillow now,” Courfeyrac declares just before straddling him and dropping a pillow on his face.

 

This, Combeferre thinks, is exactly why pillows should be banned. 

 

“Well, now I know more about your sex life than I ever wanted to,” Enjolras says, dry and sleepy.

 

“Enjolras!” Combeferre exclaims. Or he tries to. The pillow muffles his voice, and he’s starting to think that the formless, unintelligible sounds are coming from him.

 

“You are one-third of our as of yet nonexistent sex life,” Courfeyrac says, affronted. 

 

“Why are you smothering Combeferre?” He sounds closer.

 

“A difference of opinion.”

 

“I see,” Enjolras says. 

 

“I’d let you delegate, but you might take his side,” Courfeyrac says. 

 

There’s a loud yawn that probably comes from Enjolras. Still stuck literally in the dark, Combeferre has to make guesses about lots of things.

 

“I’ll take the side of whoever’s reasonable and fair,” Enjolras mumbles.

 

The pillow leaves Combeferre’s face. He opens his eyes slowly, taking in the dim sunlight filtering through the blankets and Enjolras, who tucks the liberated pillow underneath his head. His blonde hair has mostly fallen out if its ponytail, and he looks—wrecked, zombie-ish, sloppy—kind of incredible. 

 

Enjolras squints at him, adorably annoyed, and says, “Oh, god. Can you go back to smothering him?”

 

Well, that’s not nice, but Combeferre forgives him by the sheer virtue of his freckles. _Those_ are nice. Reaching out to pet those freckles, he ends up misjudging the distance and awkwardly gropes Enjolras’ nose instead, which is also nice. Along with the rest of Enjolras’ face. Honestly, it’s unreal.

 

“Please stop,” Enjolras whispers. He sounds—horrified? Combeferre can’t imagine why.

 

There’s a snicker from Courfeyrac before the distinct sound of a camera app’s artificial shutter. Moments later, his warm body slides between theirs, elbows and knees jostling them as he makes himself comfortable.

 

“You,” Courfeyrac says, pressing a kiss to Combeferre’s forehead, “and you,” he continues, turning around to do the same to Enjolras. “Go to sleep.”

 

Surprisingly, they do.

 

* * *

 

When Enjolras wakes, he comes back to himself slowly, staring at the paisley blanket overhead. His shirt’s ridden up in his sleep and someone’s arm, warm and kind of heavy, is slung over his stomach. He has a post-finals headache building in his right temple, and he’s pretty sure he has drool all over his face, but he feels satisfied.

 

“What time’s it?” he mumbles through a yawn.

 

No one answers him, but he hears someone—Courfeyrac, he thinks—humming nearby. Enjolras turns his head, looking down to see who’s cutting off the circulation to this arm, and feels himself smile at the sight of Combeferre, mouth wide open in sleep. 

 

Feeling terribly, heartbreakingly fond of his friend, Enjolras lies in contentment and watches Combeferre sleep. Just once, Combeferre’s nose twitches, and Enjolras only just manages to supress the—there really isn’t another word for it—squeal that forms in the back of his throat. 

 

It’s moments like these that reinforce his belief in a blinding bright future, that shore up his goals and his ideas and his motivations. The soft vulnerability of humanity isn’t weakness at all, but its life force. Enjolras lifts his hand, the one that isn’t increasingly in danger of amputation, and carefully touches the edge of Courfeyrac’s brow, just above his fluttering eye, and then lets his hand drift down to cup his jaw. Impulse drives him to sweep his thumb across Combeferre’s cheek and press a kiss to his forehead, gently untangling them from each other at the same time.

 

This kind of intimacy still makes Enjolras feel like he’s swallowed river stones, but he feels lighter for it. 

 

After he tucks Combeferre back in, Enjolras crawls out of the blanket fort. From the outside, it looks smaller. It also looks more like a tent than anything. He’s choosing to ignore the part where the main sections rely on blankets tied to the light fixtures because he doesn’t think that it’s really all that productive a thing to worry about at the moment.

 

But if it crashes, he will be sending Courfeyrac very smug and very disappointed looks.

 

“Good morning,” Courfeyrac says, leaning over the counter to peer at where Enjolras is sitting at the entrance to the blanket fort. He straightens up and pours steaming water from a kettle into a mug, and Enjolras makes grabby hands as soon as the smell hits him.

 

“It’s still hot,” Courfeyrac chides, scooting the mug out of sight. When he turns around and takes ice from the freezer, it’s not entirely unexpected. Enjolras beams. Courfeyrac starts stirring in the ice cubes one by one with a roll of his eyes.

 

Enjolras sticks his legs under the coffee table and sprawls across it. 

 

“I,” Courfeyrac says grandly, sitting at the adjacent edge of the table and settling his legs over Enjolras’, “have a gift for you.”

 

Eyeing the mug in Coufeyrac’s hand, Enjolras says, “You’re _withholding_ a gift from me.”

 

“You have a problem,” Courfeyrac says, peering into the mug of condensed milk that he’s refusing to relinquish. “And no, I have a _better_ gift for you.”

 

Condensed milk always sparks something nostalgic inside Enjolras, and the smell alone is enough to soothe. Even though Courfeyrac complains that the sugar overdose will kill him, he figured out the perfect condensed milk to hot water ratio that Enjolras likes best and is usually the first to make it when Enjolras starts to stress. 

 

“What’s better than condensed milk?”

 

With a flourish, Courfeyrac holds out his phone. “This.”

 

In an instant, Enjolras snatches Courfeyrac’s phone out of his hands—except Courfeyrac pulls away at the last second. Sullen, Enjolras levels his best pout at him.

 

“When did you even get a picture of Feuilly sleeping?”

 

“Pictures, plural.” Courfeyrac’s smile could be called wicked, but at least he finally slides the mug over to Enjolras. “I was helping Bahorel and Grantaire make spaghetti yesterday, and Feuilly just happened to be taking a nap on the couch.”

 

Wrapping his hands around the mug, Enjolras relishes its warmth before he stares at Courfeyrac through the steam, wary. “So? What do you want?”

 

“That,” Courfeyrac says, tucking his phone away, “will be decided later. But I’m always willing to consider any offers you make.”

 

Enjolras sits up with a sigh. The condensed milk, even watered down, does taste like pure sugar, but he loves it all the same. He has fond memories of ripping into a fresh baguette and dipping it into condensed milk and even more of his grandparents mixing him a glass. These days, when old memories keep slipping through the cracks, he’s grateful for the reminders. 

 

After a few more sips, Enjolras says, “You were with Grantaire?” He tires to sound nonchalant, but he doubt he succeeds.

 

“Yeah,” Courfeyrac says. He rests his chin in one hand and reaches out with the other to rub at the corner of Enjolras’ mouth. “He’s actually taking it pretty well? By his standards, that practically means he’s doing stellar.”

 

“That’s…good,” Enjolras hedges. Dealing with attraction, whether his own or someone else’s, makes him uncomfortable. It’s like a chasm opens up, and where the explanations and logic would be, there’s just a swirling mass. Thinking of attraction in the abstract is easier than thinking of—or dealing with—it in actuality, and he hates the thought of being indelicate with a friend’s feelings.

 

“You could go easy on him,” Courfeyrac says as though reading his mind. “But I doubt he’s about to go easy on you.”

 

Downing the rest of the mug (Courfeyrac’s lip twitches in distaste), Enjolras thinks about what it means to have people who make you want to be better.

 

*

 

They’ve dumped all the spaghetti into a saucepan to heat it up when Combeferre rises from his slumber. He announces his presence by draping himself across Enjolras’ back.

 

Enjolras, for his part, just grunts and continues to prod at the spaghetti with a pair of chopsticks. 

 

“That smells good,” Combeferre says. The proximity to his ear makes Enjolras shiver, but he doesn’t shrug Combeferre off.

 

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac says.

 

There’s a disbelieving pause before: “Did you make this?” Combeferre sounds a touch less enthusiastic about the prospect of spaghetti.

 

From out the corner of his eye, Enjolras sees Courfeyrac strike a pose. “I helped. By taste testing.”

 

“Of course. The world makes sense again,” Combeferre says, dry, and Enjolras presses his mouth shut to stifle his laughter.

 

Combeferre’s arms come to wrap around Enjolras’ waist, but his hands hover, just barely touching—waiting to see if it’s okay or giving Enjolras a moment to adjust or both—before settling down.

 

“Bahorel made it,” Courfeyrac confesses.

 

The low, amused hum from Combeferre makes Enjolras itch. How long have they been standing like this? He counts his breaths— _one, two, three, four_ —and at ten, he can’t help but fidget, shifting his weight restlessly. This used to be easier before—before they became whatever they are now. Flattening his tongue against the roof of his mouth and breathing through his nose to fight the first flare of nausea, he wonders if it’s not too late to turn back.

 

“How many pictures are you planning on taking?” Combeferre asks, and Enjolras jerks, abruptly pulled back into the moment by his voice. 

 

Enjolras turns to see, ignoring his own discomfort at how aware he is of Combeferre’s presence, and sure enough, Courfeyrac’s phone is up and pointed straight at them. He catches a silver of a smile appearing from behind the phone.

 

“Actually, I’m taking a video.” He doesn’t have to see it to know that Courfeyrac sticks his tongue out.

 

Looking back at the spaghetti, Enjolras counts to ten again. He doesn’t get there. Combeferre unwraps his arms and leaves by the time Enjolras reaches seven. There’s one last lingering touch, a warm palm against his shoulder, and that’s good. There wasn’t a point in being anxious about it, Enjolras admonishes himself. Combeferre knows him best. Of course he wouldn’t have lingered past Enjolras’ tolerance level.

 

Except they never had to worry about Enjolras’ tolerance level until now. He’s never had to think about Combeferre in conjunction with it. His ability to tolerate physical proximity has only ever been a concern about other people. It defies logic, who Enjolras is and isn’t comfortable with touching. Bahorel, for instance, can sweep him up in as many hugs as he pleases, but Enjolras hasn’t done much more than lightly tap Feuilly on the shoulder when he needed his attention. 

 

Combeferre used to be an exception. The first exception. The most exceptional. 

 

“Hey,” Combeferre whispers. He’s still close, Enjolras realizes. “It’s just me, Enjolras.”

 

The words are simple and obvious, but they tug a little at the knot in Enjolras’ chest, and he breathes easier for it. Unable to form an answer, Enjolras smiles. Combeferre nods—he understands.

 

On his way to pluck Courfeyrac’s phone out of his hand, Combeferre drops a kiss to the top of Enjolras’s head. It’s half genuine affection and half a reminder that he’s a whole head taller than Enjolras, which is just typical.

 

*

 

Someone knocks on their door while Enjolras is trying to decipher the strange expression Courfeyrac keeps trying to hide. Since he’s closest to the door and doesn’t have to climb over the coffee table, Courfeyrac turns to start crawling through the blanket fort and says, “I’ve got it.”

 

Enjolras takes this opportunity to turn to Combeferre, who’s already looking at him. He’s glad that this, at least, hasn’t been affected by their new relationship. Their silent communication takes seconds, if that, and they come to an understanding before Courfeyrac even unlatches the door.

 

At this angle, half-hidden behind the kitchen counter, Enjolras can’t see who it is, but Combeferre straightens up to get a better look before breaking into laughter.

 

“Who is it?” Enjolras asks, but Combeferre can’t stop laughing long enough to answer.

 

The door shuts again, and Courfeyrac says, “ _That_ was Bahorel. In a shark onesie. Apparently, we have two hours until the mob descends onto our apartment.” 

 

Enjolras knows better, but he still asks, “Why was he wearing a shark onesie?”

 

It takes a few seconds for Courfeyrac to reappear at the table, looking a little haggard from the journey. “It’s mandatory. For the pajama party,” he adds. “Now, who wants to help me carry his gifts through the fort?”

 

“Gifts?” Combeferre asks, finally able to breathe again.

 

Courfeyrac shrugs. “He has this”—he sketches an expansive gesture with his hands—“I haven’t looked inside yet.”

 

By “this,” Enjolras learns when he gets up to crawl over the coffee table and through the blanket fort, Courfeyrac means “giant red bag.”

 

They all stare at it. 

 

“He dressed up as Santa earlier,” Courfeyrac explains, “delivering everyone spaghetti.”

 

For Bahorel, that’s a more than adequate explanation. Neither Combeferre nor Enjolras question it, choosing only to nod in understanding. 

 

“Come on,” Coufeyrac says, and the unhappy tone in his voice makes Enjolras realize that the space left between them is deliberate, “out with it. I can sense when you guys are planning an intervention,” he adds, when they share a startled look.

 

“We promised,” Enjolras begins, slow to pick his words, “when we started that we’d check in with each other. So this is us checking in with you.” He gestures between himself and Combeferre.

 

Throughout Enjolras halting speech, Courfeyrac’s face had steadily scrunched up. He gets the feeling that Courfeyrac doesn’t know what to do with himself know that the speech is over and he can’t physically scrunch his face up anymore, so Enjolras makes his way over to him and takes one of his hands.

 

“You said we’d be good,” Enjolras reminds him. “The three of us. Together.” Without letting himself think about it, Enjolras leans in to kiss him. There’s an awkward strain on his wrist from supporting his weight, and he feels numb and hypersensitive all at once, and he hesitates just a little before he makes contact, but he does it. 

 

Courfeyrac makes a shocked sound and stays very, very still. By the time Enjolras pulls back, Courfeyrac’s face has relaxed into a soft, wondering look. 

 

With a small, rueful smile, Courfeyrac says, “It’s just—lingering insecurity.”

 

“Tell us,” Enjolras says, soft.

 

Courfeyrac’s hands twist, and Enjolras wants to hold them, but he thinks it might be best to wait. Whatever it is, Courfeyrac doesn’t want to say it out loud, that much is obvious. A million things can fill the gaps, most of which might even coincide with Enjolras’ own insecurities. Eventually, Courfeyrac shakes his head. 

 

It feels like that first conversation all over again, when they were wavering on the threshold and couldn’t decide to stay or go.

 

“Just growing pains,” Combeferre says, an easy end to the silence. “We’ll settle. Soon,” he promises.

 

“How can you be sure?” Courfeyrac whispers.

 

Combeferre smiles, wide and sincere. “Because it’s us, and I trust us.” And then he’s closing the distance between them, taking Courfeyrac’s face in his hands with a brief glance at Enjolras before he says, “It’s just us. We’re still the same people we were before we chose this.” 

 

They used to work best as a pair, Combeferre and Enjolras. “But we’re not the same people we were before we met you,” Enjolras adds, and the way the corner of Combeferre’s eyes crinkle tells him he’s said the right thing. They used to work best as a pair, but it’s been the three of them for long enough that Enjolras can’t remember how it used to be.

 

“Too cheesy?” Combeferre asks. He still has both hands on Courfeyrac’s face, looking down at him with utter seriousness. 

 

Laughing, Courfeyrac pries Combeferre’s hands off. Or he tries to. Being stubborn, Combeferre makes a contemplative sound before he kisses Courfeyrac’s nose three times in quick succession. 

 

“Argh,” Courfeyrac says, arms flailing. One of his hands grip Enjolras’ knee like a lifeline, and Enjolras pats it mildly.

 

Finally, Courfeyrac manages to roll free, red faced and breathless. His hair's a mess from where Combeferre ruffled it, and at his and Enjolras’ shared laughter, he narrows his eyes and launches himself at them, knocking them both to the floor. Tangled, and unsure which limbs belong to whom, they are relentless and indiscriminate in their attack, which is (he thinks) one part tickling and one part kissing and (because Combeferre has a capital-T Thing for hair) one part hair ruffling.

 

Out of breath, Enjolras scoots safely out of the battlefield, where he can spit hair out of his mouth in peace.

 

“What next?” Enjolras asks, turning to them.

 

“Well, we have a pajama party to prepare for.” Courfeyrac gestures at the red sack. “Let’s see what Bahorel brought us.”

 

Even though it’s not precisely what Enjolras meant by his question, he figures there’s time. There’s always time. Doubtless, they’ll have this conversation again—they’ll keep having this conversation for as long as they’re together, Enjolras thinks—but for right now, he feels settled. A little less like he’s drowning and a little more like he’s calmly floating on his back in the middle of an endless glass-calm sea. 

 

“Huh,” Combeferre says when he pulls the red sack open and looks inside. He gives them a smile filled with mirth. “It’s blankets.”

**Author's Note:**

> and then the whole gang came over like a bunch of sleep deprived birds and slept in the nest of blankets they donated to the cause.
> 
> * * *
> 
> a) i debated on adding grantaire to the story, but in the end i did it because i wanted someone with whom courfeyrac could openly talk about his insecurities
> 
> b) you could totally read this as a platonic life partners situation
> 
> c) in this particular fic, enjolras is half-viet
> 
> d) bahorel and feuilly are married for housing reasons 
> 
> e) at some point the entire gang was either working for the school newspaper or the lit journal or both but that just...didn't make it into the fic
> 
> * * *
> 
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://winchilsea.tumblr.com)


End file.
